


Target Practice

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, Community: bbcmusketeerskink, Crack, Episode: s01e05 The Homecoming, Explicit Sexual Content, Fruit, Masturbation, Misusing Fruit, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1264999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He's a young man, with a young man's urges, and he's getting tired of night after night with nothing more than his hand for company. He wants something more [...] Unbidden, the image of the exploding melon pops into his mind again: the blast as it shattered, the shower of soft wet flesh, the piece that he picked off Aramis' shoulder, juicy and yielding as he bit into it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Target Practice

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=74758) kink meme prompt: "Somebody bangs the target-practice melon." (You're welcome.)

d'Artagnan wakes with a start, wondering if something's happened; but no, he realises, he's just drunk, and it's playing havoc with his sleep. It's still dark outside and he's in his own bed, at least, with his arm wrapped around – a melon.

It was Porthos' birthday, he remembers belatedly. His comrade grinning and kissing his gun, his aim sure, the melon on Aramis' head exploding in a triumphant splash of flesh and juice.

d'Artagnan knows he'll feel like shit in the morning; but right now he doesn't yet care that his mouth tastes like an ash pit or that he could do to drink a gallon of water. He still feels wrapped in the warmth of the party, bathed in the light of his memories – countless glasses of wine, laughing at the others' jokes, laughing because he was laughing. Porthos slapping him on the back, Aramis' arm round his waist, even Athos smiling. Perfect companionship and perfect brotherhood.

He sighs happily and turns over in bed, curling around the melon, his skin tingling pleasantly all over. _Very_ pleasantly, especially around his groin – and wait, he knows what that means. Certainly not what he expected after this much wine.

d'Artagnan sighs again, considerably less happily this time, shifting an arm under his head and very deliberately not touching himself.

There's been a lot of this lately.

He's been in Paris for almost half a year now, and he's learned very quickly that where romance is concerned, it's not at all like being the good-looking young gentleman of the town back in Lupiac, where he was very much a big fish in a small pond, and female company was always attainable. In Paris he may well be an apprentice Musketeer – but as far as women are concerned, he's just another young fool with a sword at his belt.

And how can he hope to stand out, walking in the shadow of his three Musketeers, with their fine blue cloaks? Athos, his noble bearing and refined manner, the melancholy lurking beneath the surface making him only more compelling; Porthos, tall and broad, dashing scar across his eye, every inch the perfect Parisian fighting man; and Aramis, kind, fun, _gorgeous_ Aramis, who d'Artagnan bets could have anyone he chose in his bed.

And there _he_ is, barely twenty, with the provincial accent he's working hard to put to bed, but which sometimes still slips out; feeling like a naïve country boy beside those men.

The only woman he's been sweet on so far is married, so that's a dead-end, and sometimes even she seems worldlier than him; and he doesn't know what he'd say to any other women, or where he'd find what he's looking for. Someone sweet, beautiful of course, who'll step out with him in public – but not so virtuous that she won't bed him without promises of marriage.

There's brothels, of course, but the idea terrifies him. He doesn't know if it's fear of the risk of catching something, or fear of the girls themselves.

But he's a young man, with a young man's urges, and he's getting tired of night after night with nothing more than his hand for company. He wants something more; and his cock throbs at that thought, as if to confirm it to his brain. Something tighter, and wetter.

Unbidden, the image of the exploding melon pops into his mind again: the blast as it shattered, the shower of soft wet flesh, the piece that he picked off Aramis' shoulder, juicy and yielding as he bit into it.

_Target practice._

He laughs to himself, he can't help it. That would be _ridiculous_.

Ridiculous, maybe, another part of his mind answers; but right here in his bed already, and perfectly attainable.

He shakes his head slightly, chuckling again, because seriously, a _melon_ ; and determines to ignore whatever part of his booze-addled brain it is that comes up with these bizarre ideas, and just sleep it off.

He tucks the blanket back over himself, shifting till all his limbs are splayed just right, closes his eyes and waits for sleep to come, for the familiar layer of drowsiness to settle all over him and take him away.

It doesn't.

He gives it a few minutes to be sure, then flops onto his back angrily.

He's still hard, and still cuddling the melon.

 _Fuck it._ He's just going to do it, or the thread of curiosity that's woven itself through his mind will keep him awake for hours at least, even if the erection doesn't. And he _really_ doesn't want to just stroke himself off yet again.

He sits up to pulls the shutters open a crack, and sways alarmingly, realising he's drunker than he thought. The moon is bright in the sky, and illuminates the room enough that he won't need to light a candle.

He picks the melon up and turns it over between his hands, squinting in contemplation. How…?

Right, a hole. He needs to make a hole.

And for that he needs his dagger, which is – where?

On the floor, it must be. He'll have stumbled in and dropped everything in a heap, or at least he thinks he remembers doing that a few hours ago. He leans over the edge of the bed to scrabble around in the pool of linen and leather on the floor, finally locating the dagger on his sword belt – of course, where else would it have been – and sits up too quickly, feeling distinctly woozy for a second. He clings tighter to his melon for support, which in hindsight isn't the best plan as it's not actually attached to anything, before giving up and lying back down for a few moments until his head stops spinning.

Next time there's a birthday he's definitely drinking less. Probably.

He takes a few deep breaths, in and out, waiting until it feels less like he's on board a ship in distinctly choppy waters.

This is a _ridiculous_ idea.

But he's lying here still hard, with the dagger in one hand and the melon in the other, and that stubborn Gascon temper which is _determined to succeed_ once he's put his mind to something, no matter the staggering dubiousness of the plan.

He sits up more slowly this time, perching on the edge of his bed, and carefully cuts what's more or less a cock-sized circle into the fruit's tough skin, feeling anticipation settle in his stomach and groin. It might be the alcohol, but he's suddenly, unaccountably nervous. He presses a hand briefly to the bulge in his smallclothes, in reassurance as much as anything.

He chips out the circle of skin he's loosened, sticks his thumb into the hole experimentally, and sucks in a disappointing breath. The melon's not as ripe and yielding as he'd hoped, and he can't just penetrate it as is – he'll have to cut deeper.

He scrapes out a cylinder of melon flesh, pops it in his mouth and chews consideringly as he sticks two fingers in and runs them around the walls of the channel he's created. He's done a rough job of it, but there doesn't seem to be any rogue seeds or anything that will catch in there that he can feel, so he guesses that'll do.

This is it.

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair, barely able to believe he's about to do this. Alcohol, he definitely blames the alcohol, and his inability to let go of a bad idea without following it through.

Because never mind everything he keeps himself about the importance of following through on one's plans, the facts remain: he's just a drunken man, alone in a single bed, about to stick his cock in a melon.

But he's still hard, and he wanted something more than his hand, didn't he? Besides, he's started now, and he feels like he has to see it through.

So he kneels up on the bed and unlaces his smalls, grips his cock at the base and starts to push in.

 _Oh God, that's not good_.

d'Artagnan grimaces and pulls out again. He was hoping for something like his memories of sliding inside a woman, if he's honest, that warm yielding softness, and it's just… not going. It's not nearly as wet as he was hoping, for one.

 _Lubrication,_ he thinks suddenly. _Of course_. Luckily he knows he has some of that on hand, the way his love life has been going lately; and he reaches under the bed again (this time considerably more carefully) for the little glass bottle that he's been keeping topped up by repeatedly siphoning off Constance's olive oil supply.

He manages to find the bottle and get it unscrewed without spilling it all over himself, and dribbles a generous portion inside the hole. That should do.

He slicks up his cock again before pushing carefully back inside, and this is definitely better. It's on the cold side, unfortunately; or at least it feels cold against his prick, even though it's a warm night, but hopefully it'll either heat up or he'll just get used to it.

He pushes in up to the hilt, still not fully convinced, then slides out and thrusts; and the _sound_ it makes, an obscene mix of squelching and slurping that makes his heart pound with embarrassment, that seems loud enough to disturb the whole street.

He almost wants to quit right there and then – if it wasn't for the fact that it felt almost _good_.

He thrusts again a few more times, trying to ignore the noise, and it feels better each time. He's getting fully hard now, he's _enjoying_ this… except where the tough skin of the fruit is chafing around the base of his cock.

 _Should have thought of that_. He pulls out again and cuts away an extra, shallow strip around the entrance of the hole, removing a good finger's width of melon skin, before pushing back in enthusiastically.

The channel he's cut is slightly too small; but he decides that's a good thing, because the suction's amazing, better than he'd expect from the most talented whore in Paris. He's thrusting harder now, getting a rhythm going, fucking into the melon rather than fucking the melon onto him, and this is _great_ , it doesn't matter that it's an inanimate object, or that it's making all kinds of strange liquid sounds that he worries are enough to wake up Constance.

 _Constance_ , he thinks, and the heat in him spikes. Beautiful, spirited, passionate Constance, who would throw the melon aside and push him back down into the bed, straddling him as he pushes inside her hot, wet –

It's a wildly unrealistic fantasy, he knows; but it's _his_ , and combined with the slowly-warming tight wetness rolling up and down his prick, it's enough to send him shuddering and groaning over the edge.

He collapses back onto his pillow with a happy sigh, sated and suddenly rather sleepy. He just about has the presence of mind to place the melon carefully on the floor, then grab his shirt and use it to wipe away all the surplus olive oil, before tucking himself back in and passing out almost immediately.

He wakes again at dawn, with a pounding headache and a rising sense of panic as he remembers what he's done.

First, he has to get rid of the evidence.

Then he can forget this ever happened.

He rises unsteadily, ignoring the sudden twisting in his stomach and the rising ache at his temples as much as possible; however ill he's feeling, this is more important. He goes to pull on his clothes – not that shirt, it's covered in oil, where's his other bloody shirt – dressing as quietly as possible, before picking up the melon, creeping over to his room door and turning the handle as carefully as he can, hoping he can sneak out of the house and chuck it away somewhere before Constance gets up.

Of course, Constance chooses exactly that moment to come out of her own room and meet him in the hallway.

d'Artagnan meets her eyes, startles, and promptly turns a deep shade of red.

"Ooh, that looks nice!" she says cheerily, on noticing the melon. "Is that for me?"

"No!" he replies in panic, louder than he meant to, and she looks immediately suspicious. "It's – off. _Very_ off."

"Hmm, you do look a bit queasy," she says, frowning, and d'Artagnan thanks God for his hangover. "It's a pity though, I do love a nice melon."

"Great! I'll go. Get you another." d'Artagnan replies, striding out of the house as quickly as his legs will take him, and not looking back.

He's _definitely_ never drinking again.

Or eating melon.


End file.
